


muscles better and nerves more

by laulan



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-10-18
Updated: 2009-10-18
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:33:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10032263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laulan/pseuds/laulan
Summary: Post-apocalyptic mornings with the Winchesters. (Fluff.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> I stole the [title](http://www.geocities.com/soho/8454/174.htm) from e.e. cummings because I am lazy.

When Sam comes out on the porch, Dean's there already, stretched out on the ratty couch in the early morning light.  
  
His feet are bare and his toes are digging into the side, where the duct-taped hole is. He's just in boxers and a t-shirt--Sam thinks it might be one of his, because it's a little loose on Dean, but then he's never quite sure what belongs to who, anymore. It doesn't matter; it looks good on Dean, anyway. Worn-in, like it'll be soft when Sam touches it.  
  
There's a watch with its guts pulled out balanced on Dean's stomach, and a pair of tweezers in his hands. Sam hangs back for a minute, leaning in the doorway and watching Dean pick apart cogs and springs. There's this little frown furrowing his eyebrows, and his lips are pursed like he's frustrated, but Sam knows that whatever the problem is, Dean'll find it. He's always been good with stuff like that. The car, the EMF meter, Sam's calculator in sixth grade. Dean's good at putting things back together. The sliver of sun at the horizon is glinting the whole mess gold, so that it looks like treasure or magic in Dean's hands; Sam loves that it's not. That it's just something everyday--something Dean always knew how to do, something that his fingers are calm and steady on.  
  
Dean catches him after a little bit. He rolls his eyes before giving Sam this look like, _weirdo. Were you gonna stand there forever?_  
  
Sam smiles. "Morning," he rasps. His crutches make the old porchboards squeak.  
  
Dean moves his feet off the couch and scoots over without a word, nodding at the stool where there are two cups of coffee balanced. He cradles the watch parts carefully in his shirt so none get lost. Sam takes his cup and sips slowly, watches Dean tip them back into his toolbox out of the corner of his eye. The part of him that's not watching Dean watches the sky, instead.

It's this thin, pale purple this morning, spread over with blue clouds like tissue paper or lace. It looks huge; wide open, like Sam could just leap right up into it and keep going, never have to come down. It's beautiful. He traces patterns in the colors and thinks of all the sunrises he's ever seen, how many more he _will_ see. How Dean would make fun of him if he said that aloud, but how he'd still get what Sam was trying to say, how it's kind of a miracle that they're here, living this.  
  
"How's your foot this morning?" Dean asks, then, pulling him back to earth. His voice is sleep-rough, warm, and it reminds Sam of how his mouth remembers the feel of Dean's skin and how his ears remember the sound of his heartbeat, and how they'll remember these things later, too. Something hot shivers low in his stomach, and he lets his lips curl into the little smile they want to.  
  
"'s okay," he says, sipping his coffee. "Little achy."  
  
"Lemme see," orders Dean, thunking his cup down on the porch and motioning at Sam.  
  
Sam sets his own coffee down and swings his foot up into Dean's lap, awkwardly curling his body around on the couch. It moans in protest, and Dean raises his eyebrows at Sam meaningfully. Sam grins a little, shaking his head. Dean likes to insist the couch can talk, that each one of its noises means something separate and distinct, and Sam likes to tell him he's insane. They got it at a frat house garage sale, and Sam's pretty sure it's seen more crazy shit than he and Dean have in all their years hunting. It's a couch with a _personality_ , Dean will say, patting it like a dog. Sam pretends he thinks Dean's full of crap, but if he's being honest, he likes it. He likes the couch, and he likes that he and Dean gave it a second chance. Like, couch retirement. Now all it has to do is sit on the porch and watch the sun rise. Pretty good life, Sam thinks.  
  
Dean's cupping Sam's heel so gently and peeling off his sock so delicately that Sam's not expecting it when Dean lobs the sock at his face, lightning-quick. Sam catches it anyway, rolling his eyes. "Ha, ha," he says, and throws it back, hard. He misses, and Dean snickers. Sam sticks his tongue out, too lazy and content to get into it, and wiggles his foot in Dean's hands.  
  
The stitches are clean and even. They're not as perfect as they would be if Dean had done them, but they're good. It's healing just fine, Sam knows; he doesn't mind when Dean looks anyway. Doesn't mind when Dean runs his fingers over them, carefully cataloguing each one. Making sure Sam's okay, like he always has to. He doesn't mind, because he knows he'd be the same way, and he knows Dean would let him, now. Knows they're on the same page, finally.  
  
He sneaks his other foot up into Dean's lap. Dean doesn't say anything, but he shifts a little so Sam's got more room, and holds his feet there when he leans down to grab his coffee. They sit like that. It's quiet and it's good.  
  
By the time the sun's fully risen, Dean's got his hand curled around Sam's feet, his thumb making lazy little circles over the soft skin of Sam's ankle.  
  
Yeah, Sam thinks. Pretty good life.


End file.
